‘O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum ...'

Published: Saturday, December 17, 2011 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, December 16, 2011 at 4:00 p.m.

Editor's note: Portions of this column were first published in January 1990.

Years ago, I stood spellbound on a wintry windswept beach on the Outer Banks. The object of my gaze was a 6-foot Christmas tree.

The day was Jan. 10, 1988. It was a little late for Christmas trees, but this one was special. No lights bedecked its green boughs. No presents were under it. Yet the tree captured my soul, so help me God.

Admittedly the tree was windblown and frowsy. It had a right to be, for this hardy little thing stood courageously on one of the world's most desolate places: the Cape Hatteras jetty.

The temperature stood at 33 degrees. A northeaster was blowing snow. The surf crashed and bashed its way against the rocks.

My mood matched the rugged scene. Earlier I had read a newspaper account about some act of Mideast terrorism. Children were murdered. Some fanatical group claimed victory.

To hell with mankind, I grumbled and cursed. We weren't worth the powder to blow us to kingdom come.

I decided to take a long hike on the beach. That's when I saw the tree, and my mood suddenly changed. The little pine listed to starboard like some reef-gutted ship. Tinsel hung raggedly from its scraggly branches. The few ornaments swung crazily in the wind.

I asked the park ranger about it. He informed me that it is traditional for surf fishermen to place a tree on the jetty every Christmas.

Somebody cared. Somebody gave a damn.

Amidst all the horror in the world, this tree stood as a reminder that a decent spark always remains in the hearts of people everywhere.

vvv

Another Christmas tree that stands out is one I saw in Charleston, S.C.

Again, this tree wouldn't have won an award for physical beauty. It was full of spirituality, however.

I was walking up Meeting Street when I spied a small group of shoppers gazing upward. I traced their line of vision to the roof of an unfinished office building. A dozen stories high above the pavement stood the tree.

Construction workers had tied this beat-looking, scruffy thing to a top steel girder. The wind blew it around like a top. All of us on the ground waved to the workers and gave them a cheer. They waved back and laughed. Then we moved on in the rush-hour traffic. A little thing, but important.

For one brief moment in time and space, a few strangers had made cheerful contact in a very lonely world.

If you're a "boot," Parris Island is hell surrounded by live oaks, Spanish moss and tough sergeants. It's bad enough to be whumped and thumped and cussed out, but when it's a week before Christmas ... oh, woe to the young recruit a long way from home.

The night before my company graduation, our drill instructor, a grizzled veteran of Okinawa and Korea, asked how many of us believed in Santa Claus. Half of us raised our hands (hoping for the best). The other half laughed and said we were crazy.

Then we were commanded to hang up a sock at the end of our bunks. We went to bed wondering what was up.

The next morning, as usual, we heard the D.I.'s hatch open with a bang. And as usual we heard him bellow: "GET UP MAGGOTS!" What wasn't usual was the small artificial tree on the central table.

The tree looked as if it had been found on a trash heap (it probably was). A quarter of the branches were missing. The rest were bent. It was beautiful. Our jaws dropped. We looked at the tree in awe.

And sometime in the night, the old man had slipped a chocolate bar in our "Christmas stockings." Even the guys who didn't believe in Santa got one. But in their socks he also added this note:

"You owe me 50 push-ups for your doubts."

And he meant it.

It was then we realized that even with the beatings and cursings he had cared for us after all. And that knowledge is one of the best gifts I've ever received.

Christmas. It's a time to believe.

vvv

My above and beyond award: As always at this special time of the year, I focus on someone who has gone above and beyond the definition of kindness and old-fashioned decency.

Valerie Welbourn, take a bow, girl. Valerie is owner and operator of the Fountainhead Book Store on Hooterville's Main Street. Recently I called the Fountainhead Book Store to ask the price of a couple of my favorite books: Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" (1972 Pulitzer Prize winner) and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' "Cross Creek" (Rawlings won a Pulitzer Prize for her novel "The Yearling").

It turns out I only had shekels enough for Dillard's book. Oh well, one for two is still batting .500. Three days later, Val called me and said Dillard's book had arrived. As I bought the book, Val handed me a Christmas present. I opened it. It was a copy of "Cross Creek." Val said it was her way of showing appreciation for my columns.

I was floored. That is one of the nicest, sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. God bless you, kid, and have a very Merry Christmas. And don't forget to take that bow!

<p>Editor's note: Portions of this column were first published in January 1990.</p><p>Years ago, I stood spellbound on a wintry windswept beach on the Outer Banks. The object of my gaze was a 6-foot Christmas tree.</p><p>The day was Jan. 10, 1988. It was a little late for Christmas trees, but this one was special. No lights bedecked its green boughs. No presents were under it. Yet the tree captured my soul, so help me God.</p><p>Admittedly the tree was windblown and frowsy. It had a right to be, for this hardy little thing stood courageously on one of the world's most desolate places: the Cape Hatteras jetty.</p><p>The temperature stood at 33 degrees. A northeaster was blowing snow. The surf crashed and bashed its way against the rocks.</p><p>My mood matched the rugged scene. Earlier I had read a newspaper account about some act of Mideast terrorism. Children were murdered. Some fanatical group claimed victory.</p><p>To hell with mankind, I grumbled and cursed. We weren't worth the powder to blow us to kingdom come.</p><p>I decided to take a long hike on the beach. That's when I saw the tree, and my mood suddenly changed. The little pine listed to starboard like some reef-gutted ship. Tinsel hung raggedly from its scraggly branches. The few ornaments swung crazily in the wind.</p><p>I asked the park ranger about it. He informed me that it is traditional for surf fishermen to place a tree on the jetty every Christmas.</p><p>Somebody cared. Somebody gave a damn.</p><p>Amidst all the horror in the world, this tree stood as a reminder that a decent spark always remains in the hearts of people everywhere.</p><p>vvv</p><p>Another Christmas tree that stands out is one I saw in Charleston, S.C.</p><p>Again, this tree wouldn't have won an award for physical beauty. It was full of spirituality, however.</p><p>I was walking up Meeting Street when I spied a small group of shoppers gazing upward. I traced their line of vision to the roof of an unfinished office building. A dozen stories high above the pavement stood the tree.</p><p>Construction workers had tied this beat-looking, scruffy thing to a top steel girder. The wind blew it around like a top. All of us on the ground waved to the workers and gave them a cheer. They waved back and laughed. Then we moved on in the rush-hour traffic. A little thing, but important.</p><p>For one brief moment in time and space, a few strangers had made cheerful contact in a very lonely world.</p><p>vvv</p><p>One last memory. Dec. 18, 1963: Marine Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, S.C.</p><p>If you're a "boot," Parris Island is hell surrounded by live oaks, Spanish moss and tough sergeants. It's bad enough to be whumped and thumped and cussed out, but when it's a week before Christmas ... oh, woe to the young recruit a long way from home.</p><p>The night before my company graduation, our drill instructor, a grizzled veteran of Okinawa and Korea, asked how many of us believed in Santa Claus. Half of us raised our hands (hoping for the best). The other half laughed and said we were crazy.</p><p>Then we were commanded to hang up a sock at the end of our bunks. We went to bed wondering what was up.</p><p>The next morning, as usual, we heard the D.I.'s hatch open with a bang. And as usual we heard him bellow: "GET UP MAGGOTS!" What wasn't usual was the small artificial tree on the central table.</p><p>The tree looked as if it had been found on a trash heap (it probably was). A quarter of the branches were missing. The rest were bent. It was beautiful. Our jaws dropped. We looked at the tree in awe.</p><p>And sometime in the night, the old man had slipped a chocolate bar in our "Christmas stockings." Even the guys who didn't believe in Santa got one. But in their socks he also added this note:</p><p>"You owe me 50 push-ups for your doubts."</p><p>And he meant it.</p><p>It was then we realized that even with the beatings and cursings he had cared for us after all. And that knowledge is one of the best gifts I've ever received.</p><p>Christmas. It's a time to believe.</p><p>vvv</p><p>My above and beyond award: As always at this special time of the year, I focus on someone who has gone above and beyond the definition of kindness and old-fashioned decency.</p><p>Valerie Welbourn, take a bow, girl. Valerie is owner and operator of the Fountainhead Book Store on Hooterville's Main Street. Recently I called the Fountainhead Book Store to ask the price of a couple of my favorite books: Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" (1972 Pulitzer Prize winner) and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' "Cross Creek" (Rawlings won a Pulitzer Prize for her novel "The Yearling").</p><p>It turns out I only had shekels enough for Dillard's book. Oh well, one for two is still batting .500. Three days later, Val called me and said Dillard's book had arrived. As I bought the book, Val handed me a Christmas present. I opened it. It was a copy of "Cross Creek." Val said it was her way of showing appreciation for my columns.</p><p>I was floored. That is one of the nicest, sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. God bless you, kid, and have a very Merry Christmas. And don't forget to take that bow!</p>